


The Price of a Soul

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Age Reversal, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Childhood Trauma, Cross-Generation Relationship, Depressing, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical Fantasy, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Master/Servant, Non-Canonical Age Difference, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Princes & Princesses, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Royalty, Sad, Sexual Dysfunction, Sexual Slavery, Underage Sex, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is an ex-prostitute. Derek is a prince. Their paths shouldn't cross, but they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of a Soul

* * *

 

Stiles's skin feels worn, like old money, smoothed by hundreds of palms. There was a time when he found touch terrifying, because it was new, but now he finds it comforting, because it is familiar. He's an aging whore, after all, thirty-one years old and counting, his meager charms all but faded. He'll soon be put into one of the labor-houses, no doubt, where he'll have to do 'honest' work. What's dishonest about whoring oneself out, he wonders? Well, it's better to leave such questions to the philosophers. Stiles is anything but a philosopher. His line of work discourages thought.

Nonetheless, he _can_ read and write, and that gets him sold off to a magistrate's office as a secretary, which isn't half-bad. It's certainly better than the manual labor Stiles had expected. And if the magistrate likes fucking him in-between dictations, so be it. Stiles is unsurprised by it. The magistrate is elderly and his clumsy pawing at Stiles never lasts very long, with Stiles bent over the broad ebony desk, trying not to crumple freshly-written pages or smudge the ink with his hands.

Two years later, he's sold to an even richer household as a caregiver for their daughter, Allison, who is bright but better suited to archery and fighting. Here, Stiles isn't fucked by anyone, and feels somewhat disoriented by it, beginning to realize that perhaps his life has changed forever, that he isn't a whore anymore. It seems unreal. He isn't even sure he's happy about it. It's strange, losing an anchor, even if the anchor was also a kind of prison. A kind of immobility. Paralysis.

Stiles barely knows how to move under his own power, anymore.

Of course, it _isn't_ his own power. He's still a slave. But Master Argent and his wife never call Stiles to their bed, and Stiles sleeps unmolested, warmed by a thin but decent blanket in a room of his own, as though he's better than the other servants. As though, by dint of looking after their daughter, he deserves to be treated with something approaching respect.

Stiles can't say he's fond of the work, exactly, but Allison is a sweet girl. Once she's an adolescent and no longer needs a carer, Stiles is sold yet again, and it almost pains him - almost - to be parted from her. She cries and asks that he write her letters. He reminds himself that she was never his child. It helps. Except for how it doesn't.

By this time, Stiles is thirty-seven years old. The family that buys him now is the great ruling family of Beacon Hills.

The Hales.

Stiles can scantly believe it, being passed up the ranks like this, from hand to higher hand, until he's at the royal court. He still remembers the stained sheets on which he welcomed his clients, as a boy. He remembers -

It doesn't matter what he remembers. The present is the present. That much he _has_ learned.

The Argents must have spoken well of him, because here, too, Stiles is set the task of being the servant of the Hales' only son, Prince Derek, who is seventeen and has a perpetual scowl fixed on his face, like most teenagers, considering themselves jaded. Of course, when Stiles was a teenager, he'd had to smile regardless of whether or not he'd wanted to, had to simper to lure men into his bed.

But, again, the present is the present. Stiles doesn't have to charm anyone, so long as he pleases his lord.

And so Stiles mends tears in Derek's sleeves after particularly rigorous hunts and serves Derek wine and takes notes as Derek addresses them to this lord or that lady, suitors aplenty, invariably turning them all away. Stiles would like to ask why, but it isn't his place. His place is in the shadows at Derek's shoulder, always at Derek's service, indispensable. And Derek is a kind master, for all that he is brusque, scarcely seeing Stiles at all. And why should he see Stiles? Stiles is merely a convenient ghost. The invisibility is oddly pleasant, a space where Stiles is safe from sight or touch.

One day, a courtier who spots Stiles seems to know him, as well he should, as he was one of Stiles's regular patrons, once. If Stiles remembers correctly, he'd enjoyed hitting Stiles before fucking him, digging cruel fingers into Stiles's bruises.

Stiles can see the exact moment recognition flickers over the courtier's face, followed by a sickle smile, sharp and sly. He says some words in greeting - among them the word 'whore' - and smirks as he leaves, the damage done.

Derek is staring at Stiles. _Seeing_ him.

"He said you were a..." Derek trails off, like the very thought is beyond belief.

As if from a distance, Stiles hears himself answer. "He's right. I was."

Derek doesn't say anything, apparently struck dumb. Stiles follows him back to his chambers, collects his clothing to take to the laundry maids, and leaves for the night.

Over the next few days, Derek keeps stealing glances at him - long, lingering glances - and they aren't meant to put Stiles under pressure, because Derek isn't like that, but that's exactly what they do. Perhaps the lordling is too innocent to do more than look, so eventually, tiring of this game, Stiles offers.

It has been many, many years since he has offered anything.

But that night, instead of leaving, Stiles waits for the prince to finish supper, serving the wine and letting his fingertips brush the boy's.

Derek blinks. But doesn't pull away.

Very well, then. Stiles stands before Derek's chair and pulls his tunic over his head.

Derek nearly drops his goblet. "What are you - ?"

"You're curious, are you not, Your Highness? Although there's nothing beautiful left of me, now. But whatever is left, is yours. To use as you please."

Derek gapes at him. "I didn't," Derek clears his throat, "I didn't mean - maybe I stared too long, but I didn't - Stiles, put your tunic back on."

Stiles doesn't put his tunic back on. He knows other people's lusts better than they do; it was his job and, it seems, it still is. He steps closer, and then he kneels, with a grace that had been beaten into him when he was little more than thirteen. He rests his hand on Derek's clothed knee, and slides it upward, slowly, keeping his eyes on Derek's.

Sure enough, Derek's lips part, and his pupils dilate. He gazes at Stiles as if hypnotized, following the movements of Stiles's fingers as they travel languidly up Derek's thigh, until they find the laces to his breeches.

"Wait," says Derek, his breath coming faster already, and he's hard before Stiles even frees his cock, because he's only seventeen. "Do you - do you even _want_ to?"

"I want to," Stiles lies, and applies his tongue to Derek with all the skill he has at his disposal, skill that turns out to be largely wasted on Derek, who gasps and surges up, shoving his cock down Stiles's throat before stuttering an apology and trying, desperately, to hold still. A royal, apologizing to a servant; it's unheard of.

It occurs to Stiles that Derek has never done this before - so untutored and fresh are his responses - and Stiles spares a moment's guilt for defiling the young prince's body with a whore's impurity, but then Derek lays a trembling hand on Stiles's head, and Stiles returns to his work. He opens himself and takes Derek as far as he can, letting the boy fuck his mouth when control becomes impossible, and in a few minutes Derek's coming, his face transformed in ecstasy, his dark hair sodden with sweat.

Derek looks at Stiles like he's performed a miracle, and it discomfits Stiles to be looked at in that manner, like he's a gift, is precious, is _powerful_. Stiles has no power. He cannot let himself be deceived into thinking he does. All he has is a no-longer-virginal prince's favor, for sucking that prince's cock. And if Derek is lovely, it is only his youth, and if he is charming, it is only his innocence. Neither youth nor innocence last very long. Stiles understands that more than anybody.

"Can I... Can I touch you?" Derek stammers, his color high. "You're so - "

"Of course, Your Highness," Stiles says, because he can't bear to hear Derek call him 'pretty', or whatever inaccurate epithet Derek was about to assign to him. Stiles is almost forty - and while his body may still be lean, it is only serviceable, not lissome as it used to be. His knees ache from all that kneeling. That's a reminder of his age, if nothing else is. He stands and takes Derek's hand in his, since Derek needs to be led, being new to this but unable to ask for help. It feels unusual, to be the one in charge, and Stiles is acutely aware of how vulnerable Derek is, and how easily he can - despite his rank - be hurt.

Derek lets Stiles lead him, all the way to the bed, where Stiles gently pushes Derek down until he's sitting on the edge, and sits next to him.

"Touch me, then," Stiles says, and lifts Derek's hand to his chest before leaving it there. Derek's palm is rough with sword-calluses, and those calluses catch on Stiles's nipples so that Stiles has to bite his lip, attempting to quell a spark of arousal that nonetheless insists on growing at being so carefully touched. Most of the men Stiles has had either did not want him to enjoy himself, or didn't care, but there is an eager light in Derek's eyes when Stiles's nipples stiffen, when Stiles's cock begins to swell. Stiles can't recall the last time he -

He hasn't even pleasured _himself_ , not since -

And suddenly, it's all too much; it's unbearable, to have his own skin turn traitor at an inexperienced boy's touch. Stiles can't take it, can't tolerate it, and so Stiles distracts Derek by kissing him.

Stunned, Derek just sits there and lets himself be kissed, and only when Stiles draws back does he lean forward and initiate a kiss of his own, learning quickly. His desire to please Stiles is as obvious in his kisses as it was in his caresses, and soon that becomes intolerable, too, so Stiles takes off Derek's tunic and tosses it to the floor and presses the naked boy into the mattress. Stiles is breathing heavily, an unaccustomed heat making him flush, making him harden, and he hates it but cannot stop it, _dare_ not stop it, for that is what the prince wants. Stiles can't get up and leave, not even if he wants to, not even if he yearns for water to wash himself in, to wash away the stain he is, until there's nothing left.

Instead, Stiles reaches for the bowl of oil - thus far unused - that the maids customarily leave on the prince's bedside table. Then, straddling Derek's hips, Stiles reaches behind himself with slick fingers and stretches his hole open, making sure his thighs are spread enough that Derek can see what he's doing, that he can learn from it. Derek, however, shows no signs of anything as intellectual as _learning_ ; the boy's jaw has dropped and his eyes are wide, his cock twitching and leaking as though it is seconds away from climax.

"You're amazing," Derek whispers, like he's sharing a secret.

Stiles doesn't want to hear him, so he grasps Derek's cock at its base and lowers himself onto it, steadily and inexorably, not hurried but not patient, either. Derek just lies there and watches and _watches_ , as if the sight of his cock disappearing into Stiles is the best and most unbelievable thing he has ever seen.

"Sh-should I," Derek asks, "should I - move or - "

"No," Stiles says, "allow me to serve you, Your Highness," and Derek frowns, his hands coming up to grip Stiles's waist.

"Don't call me that. Call me by my name." Quietly, to make it less of an order: "Please."

"Derek," Stiles says, dutifully, and sets a good pace, rising and falling on Derek's cock, occasionally pausing to grind in slow circles, just to see Derek's mouth go slack. Stiles's muscles clench and unclench around what's inside him, and it should be hateful but somehow isn't, perhaps because of the expression Derek's wearing, lost and wondering and overwhelmed. It makes Stiles's mind go blank and hazy, makes him break out into violent shivers that wrack their way across his limbs. He's erect but is pretending he isn't, because he can't cope with that, can't -

Focus. _Focus_. This is about the prince, not Stiles, and Stiles can't afford to forget that. Service first. He drags himself back from the precipice he was teetering on and smears the sweat dripping from his body across Derek's skin. Derek looks drugged, gone, and Stiles counts the slight tremors in Derek's breaths, counts the moans that follow them. It's a sort of mathematics. It's easier like this - being technical, being neat, being _separate_.

And yet, while Stiles is still getting comfortable, it ends. Stiles has only begun to speed up - to truly fuck himself on Derek's cock - when Derek abruptly jerks and comes, flinging an arm across his eyes and crying out, a rich blush coloring his face red. He lies there for a couple of moments, panting, still hiding his eyes, as if he's scared he'll give something away if he lets Stiles see them. He's so _young_.

"Sorry," Derek says, "sorry, I was - I was too fast, you didn't - "

"Hush," says Stiles, and climbs off Derek, semen trickling out of him as he does so. But before he can do the polite thing and leave the prince's bed, Derek is sitting up and grabbing him, kissing him again.

"Let me," Derek says, "please, let me..."

Stiles can't imagine what a prince could possibly beg for, but then Derek is urging Stiles onto his back and touching Stiles, wrapping a hand around Stiles's still-hard cock and stroking it, awkward and unsure but _there_ , so tangibly there. Stiles's entire body jolts like an exposed nerve, stripped of everything but that single, burning sensation. He curls around Derek's fist as though around a wound and tries saying _no_ , tries saying _don't_ , but all that comes out is a garbled plea for more. He's so shocked by it that all he can do is lie there and take it, not thinking about serving, not thinking about giving - nothing like a whore at all, nothing in him capable of thinking beyond his own release, just like any other man.

He comes like that, disbelieving, spurting into Derek's hand and shaking like a leaf. It's indistinguishable from agony. He doesn't realize his cheeks are wet until Derek's kissing them, softly, murmuring assurances that don't make any sense. _Stiles_ doesn't need to be comforted. Stiles isn't the one who has just lost his virginity, here. Stiles isn't worth this attention, this idiotic adoration that will fade when Derek finds younger, prettier lovers.

And that's when Stiles realizes the monumentality of his mistake.

Stiles isn't a lover.

He's a whore.

"Stay," Derek says, and curves around Stiles as though to protect him from the world, but it's too late for that - too late for whatever fantasy of affection Derek is dreaming up in his teenaged brain, too late for Stiles to be rescued, too late for Stiles to be loved, too late for Stiles to be capable of love.

Derek drifts off to sleep with his head cradled on Stiles's shoulder.

A spear of unidentifiable emotion lodges itself in Stiles's heart, so deep he's sure it's stopped.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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